The White Wolf Warning
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: Bruce's son is murdered. Robin tries to avenge the murder but is severely injured. The police is useless and Bane, who recently was admitted into Blackgate, is offered a chance of redemption. He accepts. Bane's hero's journey/redemption story. Bane's POV. NOTE: This is fiction, not %100 cannon accurate. There is a more detailed note at the beginning. PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Prologue

_The White Wolf Warning_

* * *

**NOTE (PLEASE READ): This is FICTION. Meaning that it doesn't follow the cannon verbatim. This story assumes that Bane broke Bruce's back, that the bomb failed (meaning that Bruce didn't go over the ocean), and that Bane survived the whole ordeal. Everything else as far as the ending goes is true (City Hall battle, Talia dies, Bruce 'retires' and Robin is introduced)**

* * *

**Prologue: The Answer to the Riddle**

_Cairo, Egypt _

The driver, Mister Jericho Amirmoez, the Captain of the Cairo Police Department, chased the black sedan into a parking garage. I was in the back, preparing a Heckler & Koch MP5, given to me (an understatement) by an old friend of mine (an even greater understatement).

The ammunition was easy to load, the weapon was light enough. Now began the mental preparation. Breathe-slowly.

I closed my eyes and Jericho raced passed the barrier as it closed and followed the sedan.

The car that I found myself in no less than thirty minutes ago being driven by someone I thought I would never be able to trust a mere year ago was a Black Maria. Also given to me by the same old friend who gave me the Heckler, this vehicle was my prime mode of transportation. It was a metallic gray, the color of the sky when it rains at 6:00 pm- the color of grandmother's hair, the grandmother who did nothing but sit in a chair and knit as if it were her God-given function. The engine was a beautiful 600hp, and it purred like and Greek sphinx- with authority and dignity, who always asks the same riddle:

_"Which creature has one voice and yet becomes four-footed and two-footed and three-footed?"_

Simplest riddle in the world.

Mister Jericho had been driving as if he were in a film with the same repetitiveness. Car chase, car chase, car chase. The longest television commercial in human history for vehicles that perform acrobatics that you would never get away with- and if you did, then you are mad. I'll alert the presses.

"Mister Jericho," I said, turning back towards him, "I don't plan on wasting prepared bullets. Drive!"

He nodded, message understood. I can honestly say, my job is wonderful.

The black sedan pulled into a dark parking space. Fortunately for him, Jericho saw this and blocked him in. I opened the back door, the Heckler was in my hand- the sedan was still occupied.

Nonchalantly, I approached the vehicle from behind, heading towards the driver's seat. I looked through the windows and noticed three insurgents of the younger variety. They were seven, eight, and twelve. All of them their father's ambition which was hidden by their mother, who sat in the passenger.

The mother who could feel my presence, began to pray in her head that God would deliver her and her family from the gates of which I held open for them.

Her eyes landed on me, on my weapon on index finger which was firmly placed on the trigger. I could tell simply by the silhouette of her hair that a mere three hours ago she was at a gala for the Cairo Museum, one that I was also attending, not bothering or noticing me as she mingled with her cohorts and colleagues from the University from which she was a former student of. She probably thought that this night would end with a bottle of wine, a soft bed, a warm body to sleep against and to intertwine herself with in beautiful harmony. She probably thought that this night would end with her children, warm, at home, dreaming safely of aspirations, of stories, that would be written down the morning after and made into a bestselling novella of human legitimacy.

All of that vision of the night changed when her husband, the target, the Beelzebub of this situation, decided to run into a parking garage because he forgot one critical detail to his organization's plan. The catalyst to the operation, the position of the assassin- which was him of course.

I knocked my gloved hand up against the glass of the back seat three times, a death knoll. I moved towards the driver's door, I preformed the same procedure with the window. Another death knoll.

The driver rolled down his window.

"Mister Balsak?" I asked, wanting to be sure. I raised the weapon a little.

The driver nodded.

No further questioning. Elimination of all witnesses.

As I walked away from the scene, Jericho exited the van and walked towards the clear story of the building.

Across the street was a hospital, more specifically a hospital room and to get even more specific than that, the hospital room of the Egyptian President's daughter.

"Is this what we saved?" Jericho asked me.

I didn't answer him. I simply looked back at the sedan and said:

"Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes."

"Shakespeare?" Jericho asked.

I nodded. "King Richard III."

I walked towards and stood next to him. His face was downcast, distraught, as if our work were for nothing.

"Did we do the right thing?"

"History will answer that question," I said, "all I know is that the rest is labor which is not used for you I shall give to myself to finish."

"Macbeth." Jericho replied.

"You are well versed Amirmoez."

We walked together back towards the van and left the parking lot. As soon as we left, he dropped me off at the Cairo Museum. Weapon in hand once again, the crowd stopped and wore glances of fear and worry. Jericho followed me as soon as he parked the van, him, along with his officers. Marching into the final hours of our vendetta. The last of the damned souls of the Earth were about to be sent into Tartarus.

Hades and his legion entered the Museum.

Interesting analogy. A correct one.


	2. The Definition of Misery

**Chapter One: The Definition of Misery**

_Gotham City Hall_

If I could describe the end of the world in one word I would use this descriptor: beautiful. The death of tyranny, my grand proclamation, was not necessarily my vision but rather a small thought of it. My vision included the eventual induction of dictatorship, not eternal anarchy. Then again, it wasn't my plan to begin with, but hers, Talia's. The mastermind behind the League of Shadows, the mastermind behind eternal anarchy and deception.

I am not an evil man, just a confused and twisted one. A thespian if you will.

I stood there standing in the ash of the world, looking like the beast born from it and saw Bruce amidst the Gotham City Police Force. The greatest assembly of justice.

Slaughterhouses and stands for the slaughter.

Bruce's eyes were pools of malice, I could see hate in his eyes against me. If I could tell him the truth I would, I would most definitely, but then, I would ruin the surprise.

We came at each other with the fury of the cobra, the swiftness of the wind, and the force of God with our blows. We moved up the steps and onto the porch. He grabbed me and attempted to hurl me in a window. He failed, as I knew he would and I pinned him up against a pillar.

"You shall be remembered Bruce," I said, "as a martyr to those who failed!"

I punched him, a second and a third time, each successor being harder and more painful to me than to him. My hand was burning.

Fury. That is on what happened next. We clashed into the foyer, the government seat of man, the cold reflective tile floor which does nothing to benefit the cause of progress. Pitiful existence we humans have in this regard. Our endless error of history repetition.

Bruce beat me down to the floor, with his boot of justice he kicked my torso. One, twice, a third, as if the pillar beating were simply nothing.

"Where is the trigger?" Bruce asked, in a voice of the devil.

"If I told you Bruce you wouldn't believe me." I said to him. He punched me in the face, a tube of Venom was broken. He punched me again. Another. My brain, which had been coursing with the toxin of madness, began to stir and grow drunk. I smiled like a cheshire cat.

"Bruce," my voice faded, I thought my hour was at hand, final words were meant for something I suppose. "why do we fall?"

He didn't answer me.

"Why do we fall Bruce?" I asked him, louder this time.

He looked at the floor, as if there was something more interesting there.

"If you think that you are the savior of the world," I said, "then you are wrong. You're just a man-"

"A man who has come to stop you." He said. What a cliché and unoriginal statement. A director probably wrote it.

"Stop me from what?" I asked him, "Dying? That would be a blessing. Living? That would be a blessing. Either way, you win Bruce. I live, I go to prison, I die, you move on." I closed my eyes, Talia could present her work.

She revealed herself and avenged me for a moment. When I opened my eyes again Talia was thirty seconds from killing the man I tried to break, or was, made stronger. I would like to believe that. In a way, I do.

Fear is the very thing that causes us to rise from Despair. Determination is on what gets us through Despair, Desire helps us climb the rope, and when you see the sun, you know that a victorious angel rests with you.

I stood slowly and as she stabbed Bruce, I stared at her, believing that there was another way out of this. I wasn't about to be declared heartless psychopath who was victim of his own madness, although, I am all those things, it is best to look positively.

"Bruce," I said turning toward him, "do you want to live?"

He couldn't breathe. He was having trouble. I lifted him. I tore my shirt and bound him.

"Don't kill him." Talia said, "I want him to feel the heat of the fire."

She walked over and caressed my face, a mask of fear, a mask of death, a mask of pain that only she knew, that only she witnessed. We were the only two people in the world who understood in the meaning of the word: anguish.

She walked away. I would never see her again. When silence took the room again I spoke:

"We are the definition of misery. You and me. We keep believing that we can make the world stronger," I kneeled down beside him, "but all we do is ruin, sin, and die. That's all we do Bruce. Ruin, sin, and die. That is the human definition of misery Bruce, ruin, sin, and death."

A Beretta M9 was at my side, I aimed it at Bruce's cheek. At the corner of my eye stood Selina Kyle, she was beautiful with her machine, as if it were made for her. She told Bruce to duck, he did and she fired. It missed me by inches but the ringing sensation of the would be fatal accident was in my ear whistling.

Selina got off her machine, walked very nonchalantly towards me and thought for a moment that she could do something about it. I stood.

"Don't worry about a thing Miss Kyle, I shall handle this. However," I looked at her, wanting some sympathy, but receiving none. A natural response I suppose. "Don't oppress the wrong revolutionary."

I exited the place.

I am by no means a vigilante, but if I'm going down, someone is going down with me. Be it by the bomb that has eleven minutes or a bullet housed in my Beretta.

I stood on the porch, police charged and seized my person. I did not resist. I knew that my campaign for slaughter was over and that my sin was trying to be Senor Villa or Dictator Stalin. I tried to endorse a failed promise of truth, I saw that when an armored van disappeared down the street. I knew Talia was in it. I knew that my life was in it. My father's daughter planted a bomb in the center of the world, and it was here, at the base of it, where I submitted to the system.

As I entered Blackgate Prison, I was greeted by corpses and hangman's nooses. I had achieved the sin of Germany. The bomb counted down as I entered my cell.

Five, four, three, two...

I took a breath, exhaled it quickly as the world still clung to existence. The plan had failed. I would be branded a heretic, a genocidal devil. I hope that Nuremberg is quick and judges mercifully, but in the eyes of God, who can look upon me with mercy? The answer is no one.

We are the definition of misery.

I am the definition of misery.


	3. Thunderous Applause

**Chapter Two: Thunderous Applause **

_Blackgate Prison_

My name, for those of you who are so inclined to know, is Taner.

It's Turkish, and yes, it's spelled correctly.

The Pit of Hell is located there on the Turkish-Iranian border, hence the origin of the word. It means 'born at dawn'. As if my mother knew on what the dawn was.

She was born in Hell too, the only difference between me and her is that Cerberus guards her. She never escaped it. I never escaped. I'm still trapped there, I'm still reaching, still holding on the rope. I haven't fallen in years, Bruce ruined that streak. I'm falling from my grace, into the abyss, further and further into the decent as Mister Francis Xavier paces the floor, as if pacing were going to solve anything. As if pacing were going to stop his failure of being a father, of being a husband, a widow, a friend to his neighbors. He can't do that. He cannot fulfill his societal duties. He's too busy pacing.

A television is in the corner on the wall outside of my cell sitting precariously perched loose on a wall mount. It creaks and moves slightly every time a door opens.

I have been incarcerated for two months.

A newscaster, a woman of thirty-seven with crow's feet and a crow's peak and looked very much like a crow in the face had a less than cheerful disposition. I had a feeling that whatever it was, it I was going to be involved.

_"Nick Wayne, son of humanitarian Bruce Wayne was shot and killed last night during a robbery of Gotham City Bank. Officials have identified the shooter to be Sin Balsak who is believed to be connected to Bane who is currently being held in Blackgate Prison."_

I had never heard of anyone by that name. Sin Balsak. It reminded me of a rejected Shakespearian tragic player, one who was silenced by the pen and coin. Pitiful existence.

Mister Francis Xavier walked past my cell for the eighty-seventh time in two hours. I know because I was counting.

"Would you mind to sit down?" I asked. "You are making me nauseated."

"I'm not allowed to talk to you." He answered.

I nodded. I stood from my bed, from which I was sitting, "I believe I can receive a phone call."

"One." Francis replied. "Do you have someone in mind?"

I nodded again, he opened the door and escorted me like a child to the phone booth. I placed in a complementary quarter and dialed a number.

"Mister Wayne," I said, "I would like to make a proposition."

_"How did you get this number?"_

"How does anyone get anything anymore Bruce?" I asked. "Now, I've heard about your misfortune and I wish to assist you."

_"Yeah, no. If anyone is going to avenge my son it's going to be me." _

"If I recall correctly, you are still injured."

_I'm not broken anymore Bane._

"Spiritually that may be true but physically- there is no denying it Bruce, you are hospitalized."

_Robin is on the case Bane, I don't need your help. After what you and Talia did, I don't think I would trust you enough to breathe._

"Believe me I have thought the same thing." I said.

_Then why haven't you done anything about it?_

"Muero porque no muero."

_I'm beg your pardon?_

"I die because I cannot die. St. John of the Cross, said it, wrote it, no one understood it."

_I see._

"I doubt it."

_Whatever_

He moved to hang up the phone, I had to act quickly, I knew that forgiveness would never be achieved but it was my only chance at getting to him.

"Listen to me Bruce, I'm sorry that Nicolas is dead, believe me I truly am-"

_Since when did you care about my family?_

"Bruce, who do you think saved your life at the alley that night? Do you really believe that Commissioner Gordon was alone?"

_What are you saying Bane?_

I couldn't say any more. Francis took the phone and hung it back on the receiver. He escorted me back to the cell.

* * *

The television continued talking about the weather, as if the weather were of any interest to the walls.

Next to me were two non-insurgents. On the left was a methamphetamine user who was caught with three grams. A teaspoon can hold fourteen grams. Compare the difference on your own. His name was Phillip Craven, a dropout of university and a man of twenty-eight. Life without parole.

On the right was a cocaine user who was charged with murder and two offenses of assault and the use of the drug. He was caught with one gram of cocaine. It was powder. Thanks to the new government bill, the sentence ratio between powder and crack is lowered which makes sense due to the fact that it is the same thing- the only literal difference is that crack cocaine is added baking soda and heat. That's it, not kidding. His name was Patrick Dukas, a former worker at a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Life without parole.

Then there's me. Taner. Criminal mastermind, genocidal mastermind, poet, the Shakespearian thespian who preserved through hell. Death row. Sentencing is in two weeks. My only saving grace is probably enjoying a cup of coffee, the morning paper and a fire with Selina Kyle, interestingly enough.

I sat on my cot, the bed sheets smelled of urine and feces. Animals in cages.

At night, Francis and the prison warden, Marcus Aurelius, the Emperor of Rome, was talking about my transfer to Arkham Prison at the edge of the world. They conversed loud enough for me to hear. I decided to take part in the conversation:

"My fate has been decided by God, Aurelius. I believe that you only need to carry out his wishes." I answered.

"So be it." Aurelius answered. "Enjoy your last night Bane."

I sighed and shook my head out of his stupidity, _that's not what I mean you uneducated simpleton. _

"Hey," Phillip said, "shut up."

"If you wish to keep your tongue I suggest that you cease in your moving of it." I said.

Sleep was an impossibility.

When the sky turned onyx, a door was opened. Someone was having a visitor.

Footsteps walked down the hall in a centurion legion manner. Leonidas, hath you delivered me? Or have you gone to Thermopylae. If so I pray you be played among the stars with your lion. You deserve it.

"Well, well," a voice said, "if it isn't my old employer."

"If it isn't my old employee," I said playing on her words. "Miss Kyle have you come to speak Bruce's peace?"

"More like his sentence speech." She replied. "He wants to know what you meant by what you said, about that night his parents died."

I nodded, "I used to be human Miss Kyle, that is all I have to say on the matter."

"That doesn't tell me anything." She said.

"Alright, the truth then, I knew his parents from before he was born, we were close, this was before the League of-"

I couldn't finish my sentence, every time I said that name I growled it, as if I had a wolf mentality towards it. Correction, I do have a wolf mentality towards it. It is, pardon the pun, the bane of my existence.

"Why do you want to help him?" Kyle asked.

I pulled out a yellowed envelope. It used to be white but after many years of being on my person it turned urine colored. I was hoping that the letter inside was still legible. I stood and handed it to her.

"What's this?"

"A letter written by a citizen."

"You're not a citizen Bane," she said, "you're an animal."

"I didn't say I wrote it."

She left, letter in hand down the way she came. She stopped just before the door, opened the letter and read it. When she was through, she looked at me with innocent feline eyes, just like the persona she carried. I watched her go, leaving me in darkness.

"And you will not be answered with reason, I must die."

Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, Act Two.

* * *

The sun entered the place two hours later. Curtains are lifted for Act Three.

Francis Xavier walked to my cell door and escorted me down the mile. As I exit the sharp sleek door into another room, the orchestra readies itself for the overture. Mister Xavier closed the door behind me. Thunderous applause.

I was three seconds from the knife before a knock on the door halted the executioner rifle. The door opened.

Xavier looks at me, "Mister Wayne has requested you." He escorted me out.

Thunderous applause. The orchestra plays their final note. Curtain. End Act Three. Preparation for Act Four.

* * *

**NOTE:**

**This passage: **

"Muero porque no muero."

_I'm beg your pardon?_

"I die because I cannot die. St. John of the Cross, said it, wrote it, no one understood it."

_I see._

"I doubt it."

* * *

This is a direct quote from _Pilgrim_, a novel by Timothy Findley.

Correct MLA Citation (I don't want to get called for plagiarism or copyright infringement):

** Findley, Timothy. _Pilgrim_. New York City: HarperCollins, 1999. Print.**


	4. Trust is a Vice

**Chapter Three: Trust is a Vice**

I was taken to my cell. Bruce stood past the security door. He watched me with a skeptical eye, as if I were a member of post-European Africa. Confused, arrogant, and simply annoyed. The security door opened as soon as my cell door was closed. Bruce entered in a suit- as one should when conducting business. In his hand was the letter.

He stood in front of me a condottiere, a man who's fear has escaped him.

"Glad I could be a part of that process." I said, finishing my thought aloud.

Bruce laughed, he knew what I was talking about. "Is this," he waved the letter as it were a chew toy. "true?"

"If it wasn't true, then why are you here?" I asked him.

"Because I have a hard time believing it." Bruce replied.

I stood up, and almost moved to straighten out my trench coat, only to remember that along with most of my belongings on my person, it was confiscated.

The only original clothing I had on me at the moment were my boots, which they graciously let me keep so I can die in them. Funny, they always let you keep what you wear on your feet. A reminder that the life you once had is over. I used to be a mercenary. Now I am a prisoner.

Prisoner. Interesting occupation.

"Interesting that you say that Mister Wayne." I said.

"Why?" He asked.

"What an ill thought out question. Why, you say? Why! _Why _anything Bruce?" I swelled to almost manic proportions, I pressed myself up against the steel of the door and through my mark of shame I smiled deviously. I have never seen myself smile, so I have no idea how to make one, but I know what deviousness looks like so I did my best interpretation of it.

"Did you even bother to read it?" I asked, raising my voice a bit.

"I did," Bruce said, "and I cannot believe it."

"You cannot believe the words of your own father?" I asked, stepping back away from the door.

"Not when it comes from you." Bruce replied. "For all I know it could be counterfeit."

I nodded, understanding his rendering, and sat down on the bed.

"I knew your father well Bruce, I respected him, I trusted him. I would never forsake him. He took me in before Ra's al Ghul poisoned my mind and controlled it. This was before you were born Bruce, you must understand this. Your father was a compassionate man and your mother was beautiful too." I said.

"For a while they were family to me. When you were born I left, I decided that you were more important to fill their time with. After that Ra's approached me, he knew of my yearning, my search. He trained me in darkness, he ushered me into his world. I took to it like a fish to water, but I'm sure this was explained to you before."

I paused and looked up at the light overhead, it was flickering. The television was talking about a war. War was man's third mistake. The first two were inability to listen and murder. The third was war. History has proven that we are stupid when it comes to these three sins. We keep on building vices and tearing down virtues. I would be a hypocrite if I say that I do not do this. Pitiful existence.

"On the night of your parents death, I stopped the accuser as he ran down an alleyway on the side of the theatre. I didn't go in, but I could hear the play, I used to be a thespian you know. I beat the living out of him and was thirty milliseconds from killing him when that arrogant Gordon came along after comforting you saying:

_'there were too many of those tonight."_

Gordon left, took you home, I disappeared into the world. The rest you know."

"If you were such great friends of my parents," Bruce said, "then why did you betray everything they stood for?"

"Who said it was me?" I told him. "For it was Ra's al Ghul's symbiotic nature. It was not mine. For if it were mine then the entire world would be engulfed in dictatorship- not anarchy. Sin was the belief of Ra's al Ghul. The belief that we all sin and cannot regain redemption. I believe the opposite: Direction and Corruption, those are my beliefs. That in order for peace to restored we must strive for new directions, and in those new directions, to shape society to follow them, we must be corrupt. Direction and Corruption go very well together don't you think?"

"You're lying to me Bane." Bruce said. "I think you're telling me this to gain sympathy."

"If I were trying to gain sympathy from you Mister Wayne I would've gotten down on my knee and submitted." I stood up again, "I believe I am standing at the moment."

I looked over to Mister Francis Xavier. He walked towards the cell and opened it. I exited and Bruce looked into my eyes, there was no remorse. There was no sympathy. Only hatred, persecution. Nuremberg.

For the third time I walked the mile, as I began to do so I heard the opening of paper. I knew that Bruce haven't even touched the damn thing. Fury was the emotion that registered with me:

"How pathetic are you!" I shouted turning back. Francis stood in my way. That however, didn't stop me:

" You hypocritical bastard! Trust is no longer a virtue but a vice, is that it?"

"Now Bane, take it easy." Francis said.

I placed a hand over his face and squeezed.

"What of love, is that a vice too?" I asked. Ironically, I wasn't showing Mister Xavier any love at all, but rather, sucking the life from him. He screamed, I felt the skin slowly start to cave as my finger pressed deeper and deeper into his skull and face. It was glorious.

"Did Miss Kyle give it you?"

Bruce nodded. "She did."

I nodded as well, confirming my stance, "Why then, do you denounce what you know to be true?"

Bruce couldn't answer me.

"And they say I'm the manic-depressive one." I said.

Bruce smiled at this, finding humor in my misery. He read it over a second time, when he was finished he placed it in his suit jacket pocket and said:

"I'm sorry, but even with this evidence. I can't trust you."

"You don't have to trust me." I said, "You just have to listen to me, listen to your father Bruce."

"He didn't write this." Bruce said. "You did."

I released Mister Xavier. He caught his breath and called for assistance as if that were going to stop me from making my position clear. My quarrel was not with them but with Bruce, I walked towards him, militantly and unwavering. Consistent eye contact was made. Bruce just stood there, smiling as if he were the Cheshire Cat.

"Did you speak to Mister Pennyworth?"

"I did," Bruce answered, "he assures me that what this says is false."

"May I remind you that he lied to you before Mister Bruce. How then can you trust him to tell you the truth? Don't you see that you have no choice but to believe me?"

"That doesn't matter." Bruce answered.

"Interesting answer."

Reinforcements arrived. The entire prison guard was in the hallway.

"Bane!" One of them called, "stop walking and put your hands in the air."

I sighed and rolled my eyes.

"Cliché statements gentlemen?" I turned around and complied, "is that what you're reduced to nowadays?"

Bruce smiled and looked at me. "I best be going."

"If all you came to do was insult and humiliate me then you have failed," I said turning back, "the only thing you have shown me is that you are nothing but an inhuman worm, a sadistic devil with nothing to do. Maybe Nicolas deserve to die."

He stopped, like I knew he would.

"Never speak his name again." Bruce said.

"Then help me!" I barked, wolf mentality again. "You know that these fools won't and you're not fit to do so. For God sakes Bruce, I am your godfather, the only one who's still standing for you!"

"You tried to kill me." Bruce said.

"If I were really trying I would've done it, but I didn't Bruce. I merely broke your back. Don't think I won't do it again if you walk out on me!"

"Alfred stands for me." Bruce replied, going back to what I said before.

"For how many more years?" I asked. "You need me Bruce. I'm all you have left."

He sighed. The guards raised their weaponry, I was face to face with the legion of death and all Bruce did was sigh.

Pitiful existence.

"Bruce," I said in almost a whisper to what could be my final words for I would not resist the guard. There would be no point in it. No justification:

"You have to listen to me. Your father wrote that letter and gave it to me to give to you in time. I should've given it to you years ago. I hoped you would've dealt with pain better than me. I hoped that you would've understood misery and learn that the world is dark and morbid but it doesn't have to be that way."

He said nothing he simply walked away and through the security door.

"Why do we fall Bruce?" I asked.

He said nothing, the security door closed behind him.

I watched as Bruce made a phone call from the security desk.

I counted as the guard placed their fingers on triggers.

Five, four, three, two...


End file.
